But that's the problem with love - it acts on you, works through you, resists your attempts to control.

Perfection is a promise, and a reassurance that we are not wrong.

Chance. Stupid, dumb, blind chance. Just a part of the strange mechanism of the world, with its fits and coughs and starts and random collisions.

I’ve never really had a party before.” “Why did you have one now?” I say, just to keep him talking. He gives a half laugh. “I thought if I had a party, you would come.

As soon as I look up, his eyes click onto my face. The breath whooshes out of my body and everything freezes for a second, as though I’m looking at him through my camera lens, zoomed in all the way, the world pausing for that tiny span of time between the opening and closing of the shutter.

It's funny how you can know your friends so well, but you still end up playing the same games with them.

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.